'I Quit My Job To Ride 11,000 Across The Middle East'

When Rebecca Lowe announced she planned to cycle 11,000km alone from London to Tehran, most people thought she was suffering an early mid-life crisis. But the trip transpired to be a life-changing one, and here she tells WHIMN her story.

A family in Sudan who Rebecca Lowe kindly accepeted their offer of hospitality. Photo: Rebecca Lowe

The day I found myself squatting semi-naked behind a small adobe hut, frantically scrubbing myself with an economy wet wipe while scouring the vast, parched landscape for sand snakes and lurking male voyeurs, was a bad day. I hadn't seen a toilet for 72 hours – or another woman. I was caked with sweat and grime. I was burnt out, an incinerated crust, carbonised and crumbly to the touch. The slightest wisp of wind and I felt I'd disintegrate.

Normally, I'd have been concerned about my emotional health at a moment like this, but admittedly the situation was not entirely 'normal'. I was in northern Sudan, in the middle of the Sahara, and had been alone on my bicycle for eight months. Few days went by without at least one minor existential crisis – what am I doing here? Was there a life before chafing? How the hell did the Deathstalker Scorpion get its name? – Though usually these anxious moments passed quickly. More often than not, they turned out to be little more than hunger in disguise.

Not a soul in sight as Rebecca Lowe rides through Sudan. Photo: Rebecca Lowe

On this occasion, they were nothing a plate of rice and chicken liver couldn't resolve, which I gulped down in much the same way you see pythons in nature documentaries ingesting whole bison or wildebeest. While I gorged in the corner of this remote mud shack, I spoke to the Nubian gold miners who slept here each night, seeking refuge from the chemical pools and bloated heat of the desert. They were friendly, courteous, curious, kind; not a bunch of sex-crazed wet wipe oglers at all, as it turned out. And I was an odd, two-wheeled anomaly to be embraced into their home.

And so it was throughout my journey: in Europe, Turkey, Lebanon, Jordan, Egypt, Sudan, Oman, the UAE and Iran. Caution slowly melded into confidence; cynicism to trust. It's what I'd hoped would happen, but I admit I hadn't been sure. And neither, clearly, had others. When I announced my plan to cycle through the Middle East alone, confidence in my ability to stay alive seemed disappointingly low. My mother was convinced I'd be 'robbed or raped – at best'. Others thought I'd be captured or killed by ISIS. Some suspected I was on my way to join them.

One of my main aims of the trip was trying to prove them wrong. As a journalist, I had developed a strong interest in the Middle East and a frustration at how it was portrayed. While there were pockets of conflict, vast swathes of it I knew to be peaceful and safe, with lower crime rates than in much of the West. Political repression was a problem, but was frequently counteracted by cultural openness and warmth. Even as a lone woman on a bike, I felt my odds of survival weren't bad.

In fact, one of the greatest hazards I faced was not terrorists, robbers or rapists, I swiftly learnt, but myself – especially at the start. Unfit and unprepared, I left my London flat in July 2015 armed with little more than hope, resolve and 60kg of largely superfluous baggage (including, perplexingly, a ukulele). I hadn't trained, had no sense of direction and had never even ridden this particular bicycle: a Kona Sutra 2016, delivered the day before as sponsorship. Just learning to cycle with panniers took several days, the bulk of which were spent veering with inevitable futility into bushes and oncoming traffic like some gently crazed wino.

As I slogged with mulish determination across Europe, however, I slowly got my act together. And by Turkey, my thirteenth country, I finally felt in control. I was fit, at last. I could turn corners without serious injury. My thighs were reassuringly enormous and starting to scare children. Most importantly, I had developed an unwavering confidence in the goodwill of strangers – as well as in my abilities to sponge off them when necessary.

From Turkey onwards, hospitality and human kindness grew by the day. In Lebanon, two textbook murderers (grubby trousers, rakish facial hair) drove 25km out of their way to save me from a vicious storm. In Sudan, a Nubian family nursed me back to health after I foolishly ran out of water in the Sahara and collapsed, exhausted and delirious, on their doorstep. In Iran, complete strangers stopped to give me gifts – sunglasses, bicycle pumps, bags of cucumbers – and feed me a truly bewildering volume of tea.

The kindness of strangers. Photo: Rebecca Lowe

Nowhere did I encounter judgement, intolerance or aggression. Nowhere did I meet extremists or apologists for jihad. Nowhere did I truly feel afraid. While sex pests were an issue, even these generally lacked a sense of menace. The product of patriarchal, sexually repressive cultures, the bulk seemed more ignorant opportunists than brutal aggressors, and part of me enjoyed putting them – firmly, and with a fairly creative vocabulary – in their place.

When travelling alone as a woman, it's hard not to expect the worst. Vigilance is drilled into you from youth, reinforced by media horror stories of violence and abuse. And bad things do happen, of course; we can't be naive. Yet how likely are such things in reality? What's the full picture, beyond the armchair orators and selective truths of the tabloids? Are these an accurate gauge of risk? Are they a basis for sound judgement or a half-life of fear?

For me, the Middle East was far less threatening than I'd been led to believe. It was complex, colourful and rich with contradiction. It not only welcomed me wholeheartedly, but blew away long-established cobwebs of caution and doubt. It gave me strength, and courage – and the tightest pair of buns I'm ever likely to have in my life.